


Dead Dove

by Irrelevancy



Series: Organic Rituals [4]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Breathplay, Grief/Mourning, Gunplay, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Post-Marineford, the real kink here is figurative language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: He’s laughing as he says you really have a doctor’s handwriting. Your pen stutters. Ink bleeds into paper in the shape of your irritation.or; Marco isn't having a good time in his body.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Benn Beckmann/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco
Series: Organic Rituals [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632484
Comments: 20
Kudos: 24





	Dead Dove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverCeleb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverCeleb/gifts).



> :'D look who came hobbling back to op,, ,and whips out this, , 
> 
> THANK YOU SILVERCELEB FOR BEARING W ME, i really do hope you enjoy this
> 
> (*7/31: it's only been a day but I totally renamed the fic my bad)

He’s laughing as he says you really have a doctor’s handwriting. Your pen stutters. Ink bleeds into paper in the shape of your irritation.

 _Won’t be an effective ransom note if they can’t even read it_ , he continues to snicker. His thigh is right there, haughty and propped up on the side of your desk.

Pen nib meets flesh. Blood inks into his skin the shape of your smugness. He hisses, and pouts.

 _Like you can do any better_ , you reply. You don’t say out loud: _you illiterate fuck_. You let your expression speak for you.

 _Ah, but I’m a leftie, so I have an excuse_.

That’s bullshit. You know by the shape of his grin, the lines of his eyes as he sights the bedroom door.

_And why would I write when I’ve got Benn to do it for me?_

_Like you even know how to write in the first place_ , Benn replies. The pointedly light click of the door shut behind him adds, _you illiterate fuck_.

You smirk down at the page and continue scrawling. A right hand stops you.

 _Benn_ , he sighs, _you do this. Marco’s hopeless._

_Isn’t the point to have him write it though, so they know we’re serious?_

_There are other ways we’ll let them know we’re serious._

Benn, in his boots, steps light. He’s come up behind you now on the right, casting a shadow over the white of the paper before you. The shadow, in dark grey, swallows.

You swallow too, suddenly unsettled. Something is off, like a dropped serif in the middle of a word. Your hand begins to shake.

 _Hey_.

There’s red at the corner of your vision.

 _Hey, Marco_.

You look up at him, the smear of bright red on your left. His lips are still in the shape of a smile, but the lines of his eyes now say: _sorry_.

_You alright?_

_Yeah_ , you answer, voice afloat like down feathers coating water surface. _Why wouldn’t I be?_

 _Benn_ , he says softly. _You write the letter._

Dark grey encroaches again, but you hold the pen tight. It’s in your right hand, and another right hand is trying to take it from you. You don’t want to let it.

 _I got this yoi_ , you protest. _It’s just a goddamn letter_.

A letter is composed of three things: the sender, the message, and the receiver. You’ve already handled the first and last, it’s only fair they let you take care of the middle too.

The right hand leaves yours, and you breathe in relief when the dark grey disperses a little. Like smoke.

 _What does that even say?_ Benn asks, baritone packed with quiet humor. Subtlety on him looks like gunpowder smells—attentive and capable. His trigger finger tapping on your page is coated in it.

You squint to focus your gaze on where he taps. Among the things your letter asks for, your glasses are included.

 _Please_ , you determine. _That says please_.

 _In what language?_ is snickered from your left. You smack the thigh in reach in absent protest.

 _A language with an alphabet composed of_ — Benn is squinting too, but he does this in jest. He does this with a subtle finger rubbing at the bumps of your spine. — _mostly capital letters, diacritics, and ligatures._

 _Just ‘cause you can’t read it_ , you scowl, snatching the paper fully out of the shadow, _doesn’t mean they can’t._

Because you know for a fact that the recipients will be able to read your writing. They’ve been reading it all your life. They’ll be able to read the writing and the earnest message both.

The two other men in the room go quiet. It’s hard to say they’re having a silent exchange because they aren’t the kind of men who need to have eye contact to communicate; fire and smoke sing the same song regardless of sentience.

And when he speaks, it’s a warm and billowing updraft. You’re taken from the ground and held hostage in the air.

 _Say, Marco_. His voice always has a way of touching and gripping the undersides of your arms. He does not bruise the tender skin there the way you bruised his thigh earlier. _You’re not trying to hide some secret message in all that scribbling, are you?_

Your eyes find his the way pen tip finds paper. Gouges it.

 _Of course not_ , you snap. A heart begins to hammer. _Why would I, yoi?_

 _I get to be insecure sometimes too, you know_.

He’s pouting again, kicking his feet. His sandals sit scattered under your bed.

_You really do want to stay with us, right?_

You really have chosen them, right?

_Isn’t that what I’m trying to write here?_

_How would we know?_ Benn murmurs, his subtlety at its thickest yet. _With that handwriting of yours?_

The pen gouges wood. Nobody jumps. A wound opens on the table and a wound opens on you.

 _I’m not_ , you snarl, trembling with fury, _incompetent. I’m not here to be coddled._

You are here for a lot of things that they promise they are capable of giving. Here though, right now, you feel withheld from.

 _You’re bleeding_ , he comments blandly. You give him dead eyes back, before shaking loose more blood from the wound on your forearm and smearing it across the page. Red on white in grey.

 _Don’t you need to prove you’re serious?_ The violence in your voice is not meant for senders, but for the receivers. You have never felt more violent toward the receivers. _Send them a finger then. A left arm, yoi._

 _Marco_ , he says quietly. _Sorry, that was uncalled for. I didn’t mean it._

His apology is as genuine as the fresh hole in your wooden desk, the one that won’t be healing over. You deflate immediately, eyes going to the wound in your arm, the one that also hasn’t healed over.

 _Marco,_ this is Benn, _you with us?_

You have a hard time answering. You think your teeth have become bars and your tongue is the bird caged within. You feel like someone needs to knock out your teeth in order to free that bird.

Your chin drops to your chest, and you bite until you taste blood. Liquid, at least, can trickle past bars and down the ink on your chest.

_How can they do this to me?_

This is your question. This is another unhealing wound. Your fingers find the blood on your forearm and dig in like teeth. You are an aberrant misalignment of body parts, and the glue between soft tissue is coming apart.

Right hands grip you, one on your wounded arm and one on your wrist. No, it grips the manacle that in turn grips your wrist. It grips the manacle with such white knuckles that it threatens to crush the sea stone to dust. It’s matched by a glare of vicious willpower.

 _If it wouldn’t hurt you worse_ , he says, every inch the Warlord of infamy, the second strongest man in the world. _I really would send them an arm._

You glare at the manacle too. No, you glare at the flesh and bones underneath that manacle. You are wishing it would all turn to dust. Two months like this and you are more tired than you’ve ever been of this body and its distortions.

 _We’ll get you back, Marco_ , Benn says, undoing the old bandages around your arm with ever-competent fingers. _All of you._

 _We promise_.

Good humor flickers back into his eyes like light on a wick. If he is candle flame, you feel like undone wax desperately trying to keep grip and bluster your way back up the shaft. In this body, you cannot stay close to him.

 _I need to write this letter_ , you whisper, hollowed out with begging. His eyes soften further.

 _I know_ , he replies. He continues to be genuine. He is the most genuine thing you know. _Write it. Then sew yourself up; Benn won’t do it for you._

The flame snuffs itself out with a sluice of smoke, and the wax, relieved, stays on.

* * *

The needle bites into your skin. _An alphabet of ligatures_ , you think in Benn’s sinking voice. You imagine feeding your forceps in between the split flaps of skin to tie up every leaking vein and artery. You imagine leaving the wound open.

Instead, under the easy gazes of the two men you have chosen, you stitch your forearm closed. Benn rewards you with a bottle of clear, pungent liquor doused over the blood, and you sink teeth into teeth at the ignition of pain.

 _Clean yourself up_ , he says over the light clack of Benn setting down the bottle. He’s moved to lounge on your bed, bare feet divoting your rice-colored sheets. _Bandage it_.

You bristle—not at the fact of the order but the content of it. He’s got his hand behind his head and elbow akimbo, the taunting red succulence of a carnivorous flower. Your jaw begins to tighten.

Then you hear a familiar sound. You feel a familiar weight on your shoulder, and the architectural tension in that round of meat drains away on a sigh.

You turn and press your temple to the cool barrel of Benn’s rifle.

 _You indulge him too much_ , he protests from the bed with a still-loose elbow.

 _He’s having a tough evening_ , Benn counters, like white smoke on a snowy morning. You are pressing heavier and heavier into the gun, so he gives it a little jostle. _Go on then. Bandage it._

You have an easier time applying the bandages now that heat threatens at your ear. Blissed out candle, you glimmer for the flame before the lighting.

 _They’ve made you so fragile_.

His voice is perfumed with enticing rot. Your gaze flies closer and closer to his petals.

 _Look at you now._ Here is his bite, his burn—it’s a different sort of burn from the flames. This is the burn of digestive liquids, and you are awash in your own consumption. _What am I supposed to do with this?_

 _This_ means your body. Flowerflesh shuts out the sunlight and begins the meticulous removal of you from your blood, your torturous skin.

 _Hold this_ , says Benn, before he tips the gun over your shoulder. It lands with a thunk between your legs, muzzle down and a mere inch from your groin. Your fingers clutch at the shaft of it, opaque like wax.

 _All the things we can’t do with that_ , he sighs, shaking his head. His disappointment sloshes, and you are wobbling on the vertigo. _All because of your old family, huh?_

 _They’re still my_ —

You hear a twanging note of twine behind you. Excitement clogs your throat in the act of salivation. On the bed, he raises a brow, and you know you have to finish your part of the script.

— _they’re still my family._

Penal rope finds solicitous neck. Benn layers it in two neat and even bars. Your throat is the bird now, slamming against the bars in an ingrained bid for freedom. You clutch tighter onto Benn’s rifle and talk it down.

 _Oh Marco_. He likes to sound like this when it comes to you. You like it when he sounds like this when it comes to you. _When will you give up on that already?_

You hiss, because it’s what you’re meant to do: _there’s nothing to give up on—_

You choke, because it’s what you’re meant to do. Ropes gouge skin in an act of salvation. Dark grey swallows, and the bird is dying.

Benn’s hands, on either side of your neck, ease. Your throat expands under the loosening coils.

 _If they really still love you_ , he’s saying from the bed, feet scuffing in pity, _don’t you think they’d give_ _you this_ _, instead of taking it from you?_

 _You want to take a good look at who’s really giving you what you need_ , Benn murmurs into your ear, as he slowly strangles the response out of you again. Your numb fingers know nothing but the cool metal gun. You think if someone fires it now you would skip the melting and disperse immediately to smoke.

Your breath is returned to you again before the grey can get too dark. You are making ragged sounds of discontent. You wish the breath didn’t have to be returned to you in this gesture of coddling; you wish the bird would burst into regenerative flames inside your throat again.

 _They think we can’t hurt you like this_.

He sounds so sorry. Tears slip from your eyes, hot as blood.

_But they’re the ones hurting you like this, aren’t they?_

Benn’s rope finds your carotid, and your dick finds his rifle. You are numb. Your body is being peeled from you. Yet, the way he is right there, the only red thing in your world of darkening grey, makes you cant.

The red is smiling. He slips from the bed, hot as blood.

 _Benn and I_ , he is murmuring as he approaches, _we know what you want._

You’re inclined to agree. So far, they are the only ones who have known to kill the bird first.

_We know how to hurt you—_

It’s the manacle on your wrist that’s leaving the bird dead. You’re not the hostage, the key to your body’s cage is.

— _and how to piece you back together, don’t we?_

The wax claws its way back up the candle. A right hand takes the rifle.

 _Come_ , he suggests, sighting the muzzle. You are choking again, spit and tears both leaking. Something else is leaking too. _In this body you hate so much. Can you do that, Marco?_

Despite the ropes you shake your head. You haven’t found release since your cuffing, and you don’t think you will until you have your body back.

_Aw, sure you can. Here._

Muzzle finds your groin again. Muzzle presses.

Rope sinks, rope twists. Rope frictions against your skin in opposite tracks until you’re so sure smoke is rising from the burns.

 _He really does indulge you_.

This is paired with unfaltering eyes and soft lips in a smile. The rifle continues to press, to compress. Mouth painfully dry from panting and not being able to pant, you reach to grab him.

Your right hand finds an empty sleeve. In this body, you cannot even touch him.

 _I want to make you come_ , he continues conversantly. _Ask me why, Marco._

Benn keeps hold of your voice a bit longer after the request, so that you are suspended, held hostage between them. You are eaten nearly entirely away by the grey this time around.

But, as always, they resuscitate the bird. He insists again you ask him.

_Why?_

Your voice is less a voice and more a char. Together, they really might set your corpse aflame.

 _Because t_ _his body needs to be cared for, doesn’t it_ _?_

Your loss of breath this time has nothing to do with Benn or ropes. You glare up at him, betrayed. Your right hand manacles his sleeve.

 _Shut up, yoi_.

 _Hey_ , he pouts, _don’t be mean_.

 _That’s my job_ , Benn’s rifle says, heating up against your skin. Despite the irritation coursing through your torso like ink, you still find yourself snugly pressed up against the gun. He is being nice. He is letting you.

Benn’s rope is letting you keep your words, so they must want you to tell them:

_I don’t want my body to be like this._

_Not now, sure_ , he says agreeably. _But what about afterwards? What happens after you’re done grieving?_

The sweetness snuffs out. Abruptly, the room smells like salt and humans again, and he is armless in front of you, holding a gun. There are abrasions on your throat that sting, and the rope has fallen way loose.

His mouth is confusing. It’s at once weighed down by regret and buoyed by encouragement. You are, abruptly, cognizant. You are, abruptly, Marco.

There’s a language to his mouth too, its own alphabet of ligatures. Shanks is no leaking vein, he is healed-over stump.

Which are you?

You are, you decide, a smokeless sigh. You are a right hand leaving him. You are standing to get a better look at the sutured disappointment in between his smile, and you are, abruptly, irritated.

You are lips finding his and a thumb finding that spot of bruising on his thigh from earlier. You are beckoning rope and inviting spine that finally receives the length of Benn warm and billowing against your back.

“You wanna be insecure sometimes too, huh?”

He is chuckling sheepishly against your mouth.

“Just a little bit. As a treat.”

“Who exactly are you treating with this?”

Benn’s hand is cupping your bruised throat the way it cups his rifle before aiming. You feel so safely chambered, safely held. You pick yourself up from the bottom of your cage and think maybe this kind of enclosure isn’t so bad.

Your tongue dips into nectary, and you roll your eyes a little at how sweetly he responds. Mostly though, you feel warm. And a little bit liable.

“No letter,” you murmur into the kiss. “We’ll go in person tomorrow yoi. I’ll… I’ll talk to them.”

You’re still looking for the words that will convey this, that will properly convince them that the flame doesn’t hurt the candle and wax is happy burning. You glance to the side and think probably the grey can help. It’s what overtakes you before each resuscitation, after all.

You are rewarded with a warm squeeze as a result. You breathe through it, pleased with the momentary suspension.

“Okay,” Shanks agrees. He sounds more pleased too, a feeling ligatured to relief. “Tomorrow. Sounds like a plan.”

“And?” you rasp with the raise of an eyebrow. You are entirely in love with the way you’ve lost your voice to them. “In the meantime?”

He is puzzled but Benn is not. Benn is snorting and giving the barrel of his rifle, still in Shanks’ hand, a meaningful nudge. You put your left hand on him and your right hand on Shanks. You slip your fingers into the red, and don’t melt. Not yet.

“You owe me an orgasm, yoi.”

(But you intend to.)

**Author's Note:**

> it's like i went "what's a super niche threesome? cool now how do i make them more niche? add kink? present tense? second person POV? check check and check."
> 
> jdfknd shall I tell you my intentions, and you tell me if I'm hitting the marks? [{CW: self-harm.}] In a continuation of the series, Marco has come to rely on veryveryvery violent edgeplay as a way to ground himself in his own existence/body after Marineford. The other Whitebeards find out about it, slap a seastone cuff on him, and take off w the key (probably 'cause Shanks & Benn didn't let them take off w Marco wholly). Their idea is that if he can't revive, shanks & benn won't hurt him/let him be hurt too seriously. They're right, but left mortal, Marco feels less and less attached to his own body because it's no longer capable of taking the damage he wants it to take, and Shanks & Benn won't play with him at that level either. At the same time though, Shanks is aware what they're doing can be damaging. At the end, Marco reveals he also knows this as well, and is working towards a mentality that doesn't succumb to that damage.
> 
> How'd I do?
> 
> ...that being said i'm FLOURISHING this leo season and am supremely proud of how this turned out, at least language-wise lMFAO. leave a comment if you made it through!!
> 
> [tumblr](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/)


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